


Sugar and Spice (or Butterscotch and Cinnamon)

by goldheart



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frisk Needs A Hug, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Misgendering, Nonbinary Frisk, POV Second Person, Post-Pacifist Route, Post-Soulless Pacifist Route, Reader Is Chara, Reader Is Frisk, Selectively Mute Frisk, Spoilers - Genocide Route, Spoilers - Pacifist Route, Transphobia, gender bias, nonbinary chara
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:18:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheart/pseuds/goldheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your eyes are burning. You flush away your dinner and stare at your reflection. A stranger stares back, mascara running from her reddened eyes in watery streaks. Look at her hair, so pretty in its soft curls that she insists grow longer again, to hide the sloppy work you did to get it out of your way so long ago. Look at her pretty dress. Look at the chest she won’t even think about hiding, because that is not what good girls do. </p><p>You lean your elbows on the counter, cluttered with makeup products, and you cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar and Spice (or Butterscotch and Cinnamon)

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the player decides not to live with Toriel after the True/Souless Pacifist ending, because they have 'somewhere else to go.'

You bow your head, eat your food, and try to be a good girl. Just like you're supposed to be. Just like she wants you to be.

You really do. You really, truly try.

After all, you were the one who ran away. It’s your fault, isn’t it? It’s the least you can do to say sorry, for what you tried to do, when you escaped the first time.

You feel her gaze on you and dip your head lower, your fingers gripping the fork so tightly that you can see your knuckles turn white.

**_Frisk. Let me take care of this._ **

You shake your head. This was your decision. You told Toriel that you had a place to go, a family to return to, and that was that. Never mind that ‘home’ was a place where they told you to speak up and use words that you didn’t have. Where she made you wear the pretty pink dresses that she laid out on the bed for you and put tiny braids in your hair and drew black lines over your eyelids when all you wanted to do was wear your baggy, striped jumpers and scuff up your sneakers outside.

You shouldn’t be complaining. Sometimes you liked wearing the dresses. Sometimes you liked tutus and dance shoes. But being told that you must wear them, that you must be nice and feminine and that you must answer to the name ‘Felicity,’ makes your bones ache. It makes your stomach churn. When you are forced, when it is not a choice, you want to die.

But you remember why you went back when you close your eyes and see piles of dust left in your wake, lodged into your footprints and coating your hands. You deserve it when you dream about Sans desperately killing you over and over and over until he gets tired enough to allow you to slash him to ribbons. You deserve it, you think.

**_No you don’t. Dammit, Frisk, that wasn’t your fault. If you’re gonna punish anyone for that, punish me._ **

‘Felicity,’ she warns, and you force yourself to take another bite. Then you set your fork down, as carefully and quietly as you can, and gently push the plate away.

 _I’m not hungry anymore,_ you try to tell her, but you’ve forgotten that she doesn’t know ASL, and never will. She will make you use your words.

You open your mouth to say it, but you can’t work the words stuck your throat. She gets that dark look in her eyes, the one that promises punishment, so you try, and you try, and–

**_Let me._ **

You feel your control slip. You’re just so tired.

‘I’m not hungry anymore,’ Chara says with your voice, plastering a dazzling smile onto your face. ‘You’d like me to be thinner, right, Momma?’

She looks placated at that, if not just a little unsettled by Chara’s grin. ‘Of course, dear.’

‘I’m going to my room,’ Chara announces for you. Without waiting for her answer, you find your strength and take control of your body (they let you, and that’s worrying enough) and flee.

You retch violently into the toilet when the door slams shut behind you, shuddering and feeling like you’re expelling all of your burning insides into the bowl. You/they feel your/their sins crawling up your back.

**_Stop it!_ **

Your eyes are burning. You flush away your dinner and stare at your reflection. A stranger stares back, mascara running from her reddened eyes in watery streaks. Look at her hair, so pretty in its soft curls that she insists grow longer again, to hide the sloppy work you did to get it out of your way so long ago. Look at her pretty dress. Look at the chest she won’t even think about hiding, because that is not what good girls do.

You lean your elbows on the counter, cluttered with makeup products, and you cry.

**_This is bullshit. Come on, Frisk, look at me._ **

Invisible fingers tilt your chin up until you face the mirror again, and there, behind that stranger, a wavering reflection of someone taller, skinny as a twig, with colourful band-aids criss-crossed over their knees, leaves in their messy red-brown hair, dirt streaked across their green jumper, and anger in their crimson eyes.

 **_Let me do it,_ ** Chara coaxes. Their reflection slides their arms over the stranger’s shoulders, and you can feel their weight dragging the ends of your hair against phantom wool. They fold their hands in the shape of a heart, a SOUL, and press it against her chest. You can feel them there, too. **_You don’t have to do this anymore. Stop punishing yourself for something we never did._ **

You flinch away, and they disappear like smoke as your reflection stumbles through where they were standing.

 **_Come on,_ ** Chara whines. **_This isn’t the way to do anything. I’ll_ ** **make** **_you let me pull you out of this. Wouldn’t you rather be with Mom and her pies?_ **

You ache for love. You ache for acceptance. But you won’t go get it. You deserve this for the dust you still taste in your mouth that turns everything you eat into guilt.

Chara shifts inside your head, their relentless pressure to make you give up all of your control halting with startling abruptness.

 **_Fine,_ ** they snarl with no small amount of venom. **_Let her kill us. See if I care._ **

And silence. Your thoughts feel suffocatingly empty.

_...Chara?_

But no one came.

Quietly, you slink into your room and curl up on the floor. It’s what you deserve, after all.

* * *

 It’s too quiet, in your head.

You miss the smell of butterscotch and cinnamon.

* * *

 It’s been so long since your head went silent. You are older now than you were when you left for Mt. Ebott. You were so tired of it then, tired enough to fall down a hole and not care if you woke up at the bottom, but now, that exhaustion has sunk into your bones, latching onto you with dull teeth and weighing your shoulders down.

It’s funny. You think you’d feel lighter now, without Chara dominating your thoughts and giving constant commentary in the background, but all you can do is try to bear the weight when she shoots you threatening glares that say, ‘sit up straight or you’ll get what’s coming to you when we’re alone.’

This is worse than being alone with her. Now, you’re stuck with hordes of relatives who didn’t say a word when you disappeared for months, but who you must impress now that you’ve mysteriously reappeared with that stupid smile on your face and dead flowers in your hair. You’re wearing another dress, now, one layered with tulle and tied up with a satin bow. She’s made sure your makeup’s immaculate. Your hair is stupidly soft and twisted into pretty ringlets.

They’re all staring at you. Not all at once, no, but you can feel their eyes on the back of your neck, boring into you with startling intensity and shooting anxiety into your bloodstream. You twist your fingers together under the table. _Please, don’t make me talk to you,_ you silently beg.

‘Hey, Felicity,’ your cousin says. You think her name’s Stacy. ‘What’s wrong?’

You can feel your mother’s eyes on you, burning with expectation. You swallow around your trapped words and shake your head, offering a very stiff smile. You can do this.

Her frown deepens, but Stacy doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Come on, you can tell me. I’m your friend, right?’

 _No,_ you think, staring at her. _No, no, you’re not my friend. You wouldn’t understand._

‘Come on,’ she urges. ‘I promise I’ll listen.’

You feel your hope inflating. Maybe she will understand, after all. Carefully, you show her your hands. _I am trapped. I can’t breathe in this dress._

She stares at you, uncomprehending. You deflate a little, inside, and take a deep breath. In a hoarse whisper, you repeat what you said. She blinks and points at your bow. ‘I can loosen it, if you want?’

You shake your head, your eyes darting to your mother. She’s distracted now, laughing along to something your grandfather said. ‘No, it’s-it’s not that. It’s, um, it’s being in the dress. I hate it. I don’t want... I’m...’ You feel the tears pooling in your eyes. ‘I’m not a girl. I don’t want to wear the dress.’

She stares again before she bursts into laughter. Your stomach twists unpleasantly, and you tense up. You put your hand on your waist, feeling for a knife that isn’t there, before you remember why, you remember where you are, _who_ you are, and who isn’t there to own that knife and speak your words for you.

‘You’re obviously a girl,’ she says a little too loudly. Your mother’s head whips towards you in fury. Now they’re really starting to stare. ‘You’re certainly not a _boy._ What else could you be, haha!’

‘Nevermind,’ you whisper, scrambling to get to your feet.

‘Felicity? Are you okay?’ she asks, looking confused. You shake your head, wiping at your face furiously and seeing streaks of black across the back of your hands.

A chair scrapes back from the table, and you _know_ who’s coming for you, so you do the only thing you can.

You run.

‘Felicity!’ your mother calls after you, but you pretend like you can’t hear her, kicking your shoes off and running for the bathroom. You lock the door behind you, your stockings sliding against the linoleum.

You’re trapped, but you’re safe, for now. You want your mobile.  If you had it, if she hadn’t taken it, you could admit defeat now and call Sans. He could save you. He could take you away from here with a shortcut. Or Undyne. Undyne could break you out with her spears and her yelling. Or Toriel, with her fire magic and her fierce glares. Or Papyrus, or Mettaton, or Alphys, or Asgore, or... anyone. Anyone could save you.

But you can’t even call a single one.

 **_That’s not true,_ ** a sullen voice says from behind you.

You look up at the mirror and feel your heart leap, because a sulky looking Chara is standing next to your stranger’s reflection, their arms crossed petulantly over their grubby jumper. Your mother’s hammering on the door, demanding you let her in, but you can barely hear her through your joy.

 _Chara!_ you cry, shaking with relief. _You came back!_

 **_Of course I came back,_ ** they say dryly. **_I never left, idiot._ **

You want to hug them. To beat at their chest and bruise them until they break into pieces. To scream and laugh and cry and thank them.

But you don’t. They know what you’re thinking. They understand, anyways.

You hear your mother clearly, this time, and it snaps your attention away from the mirror. She’s getting help. The doorknob shakes, and with it, your fear comes crashing back, knocking the air from your lungs and weakening your knees.

 _Please,_ you beg Chara, scraping your manicured fingernails against the glass. _Please, please, help me._

Chara shakes their head before laying a hand on your shoulder. Its weight is comforting. You can breathe again, finally. **_Alright, crybaby. But you need to help yourself, first. You done torturing us with this stupid punishment?_ ** They laugh. **_Isn’t sharing a SOUL with me punishment enough?_ **

You don’t know. Maybe you need to atone for your/their sins by suffering a little more. But now, you’re so tired of it. Tired of the screaming and the hitting and the stupid dresses you don’t want to wear all the time. You can’t do it anymore.

You want to go home.

You want to go home!

Seeing your friends’ faces in your mind, thinking about spaghetti and violent cooking lessons and dance-offs and bad puns and the smell of butterscotch and cinnamon pie...

It fills you with

D E T E R M I N A T I O N .

But above the ground, you have very little power to stop the adults.

 **_Let me, Frisk,_ ** Chara coaxes, warming your back with their comforting embrace. **_I’ll get us home to Mom._ **

You look to the door, shaking with that woman’s thundering knocks raining down on the wood. You never want to see her again.

 _Please,_ you say as you give up complete control, _just don’t hurt them._

 **_As if I’d waste your energy on that. Those days are over. Well. Unless you’d like to start them again..._ ** They laugh.

For the first time in a long time, you rest.

* * *

 ‘Felicity,’ she says with deep disapproval when you finally unlock the door and open it wide. ‘That was very rude, what you did. Go back and apologise to everyone.’

You—and it is you, entirely Chara, not you speaking your host's words for them when they can't physically do it themselves—roll your shoulders, straighten your back, crack your neck, and look up at her with a wide smile, like a marionette doll being tugged upright. She takes a startled step back at the look on your face before she goes white. Ha. You can feel your eyes blazing with your hatred, and you know she sees it, too.

‘I don’t really feel like it.’

She makes a high-pitched squeaking noise as you advance aggressively, your grin stretched too wide.

‘Stop that!’ she demands, trying to shove you away. ‘What are you doing, Felicity?’

‘My name’s not Felicity,’ you say, a wild kind of satisfaction burning through you. ‘Felicity’s dead, Mrs. Brown. You’re better off not looking for her.’ You wrap your fingers into her dress’s collar, holding her there, trapped in your grip.

‘What are you?’ she asks, her voice wavering. You giggle, running your fingers over her face.

‘I’m the demon that comes when people call the wrong name,’ you murmur, grinning beatifically. ‘And you’re gonna wish you’d never heard of me if you try to tell anyone what happened here. Got it?’ You tap her nose and let her go before you turn to walk away, tugging at the ribbon around your waist.

‘You’re insane,’ she yells after you. ‘You’re grounded! Just you wait until your father gets home, young lady!’

You turn back to her, and she yelps, skittering back towards the wall. You understand her situation. It’s not often you see your child wearing a demon’s face.

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit desperate to cling to a child you all too happily abandoned when they ran away?’ you ask sweetly, folding your hands behind your back. ‘Forget Felicity. I meant it. She’s dead. She died when she fell into the mountain. Now, go back and tell your family that she’s gone to bed. You won’t mention her ever again.’

You wish you had the knife to punctuate your point. However, there’s nothing you can do about that now. Ha, even if you could, that would make Frisk so upset, wouldn’t it? It would unravel all of your hard work, and you’d hate to reset now, in your moment of triumph.

You stalk out of the house. No one comes after you.

You walk, and you walk, and you walk, right up until you get yourself so lost that you’re certain no one is following.

You take the phone you stole from that woman. Carefully, you punch in a number from memory.

 _Please come get me,_ you text. _I want to go home._

You had your fun. You got them to safety. That’s enough for now, you think as a brilliantly, terrifyingly blue light flashes in your vision and you shove the sluggish Frisk back into the driver’s seat.

‘hey, kid,’ Sans greets as Frisk slumps in that stupid dress you’re wearing and bursts into tears. ‘woah, woah, it’s okay.’ His arms come around you—no, they’re around Frisk, now that you’ve retreated to that place away from reality, deep inside them—and hold them tightly. ‘it’s okay. i’ve got you.’

* * *

There’s a soft mattress under you, a warm, fuzzy blanket curled around you as tightly as it can go. You squint in the morning light filtering in through the window,  confused and disoriented, before you remember and bolt upright.

 _Chara,_ you say, panicked, _what did you do?_

 **_Didn’t hurt anyone,_ ** they answer a bit grumpily, sounding groggy. **_What did I say?_ **

You unwrap yourself from the blanket and find that you’re not in that horrible, horrible dress. No, no, you want to cry; you’re in a jumper, warm and fuzzy and striped in purple and blue, just the way you like it.

You take the time to look around. It’s a simple room, just a wardrobe, a lamp, and the bed. Completely unfamiliar. That, alone, is comforting, despite not knowing where you are.

Because, really, you know where you are. You can smell it. And you can’t help the smile that spreads on your face at that smell as you look down at the source, wafting butterscotch and cinnamon up to you and truly calming you for the first time in months. Downstairs, you can hear pans clanking together and the sound of conversation in warm voices. Sans. Papyrus. Toriel, no... Mom.

You pick up the slice of pie in your shaking hands and start to giggle with relief, because finally, you are safe.

You are home.


End file.
